


They call us gods, but we are mortal still

by olivemartini



Series: Jessica Jones Verse [1]
Category: Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Character Study, Jessica Jones - Freeform, Train of Thought
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 21:20:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14341137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olivemartini/pseuds/olivemartini
Summary: They think us gods, but we are only human, and none of the powers will help us when the pedestals you placed under our feet start to crumble.





	They call us gods, but we are mortal still

They think us gods.

They think us gods, but we are only human, and no amount of powers can stop the pedestals from crumbling underneath our feet.  We may have powers but we do not have wings and the fall will hurt us just as bad as it will the humans, it will destroy us, only the difference is that there will be no one waiting to pick us back up- no one loves a fallen hero unless they become a martyr and the thing is I'm not ready to die yet, even if I dress all in black and live with whiskey stained words dripping off my tongue, I will not, I will not I will not-  _stop._

 

 

They think us demons.

They think us demons and maybe they are right, because this anger coursing through me must be some sort of hellfire, it is only evil that made me the way I am, what other name do you have for someone that can twist a man's spine with their fist like they're crushing a straw or rip a door off of it's hinges, how else could you explain this rage if it does not come from some deadly source, it is only a matter of time-  _Lucifer was an angel once, before the fall, and everyone loved him, too.  I am only mortal.  How can I survive a fall like that?_

 

 

 

They think us gentle.

Like, because we saved you once the hard parts of us will melt, our rough edges will become so smooth that you will not be cut when we reach out to help you back to your feet, that this gunfire flashing in our eyes is only ever going to be turned towards people who might want to harm you, not the woman talking too loud on her cell phone in the grocery store or the sleaze ball with the overly cheap hair cut that has too much gel in it, like this thing inside of us is something we can control, something that we can harness and turn into light when we need to shine-  _This is a lie.  You only become a hero by being brutal, being ruthless, by playing at being a god, even though you never even came close to knowing what divinity feels like._

 

 

They think we are monsters.

This is closer to the truth, the closest word I can find when it comes to talking about the ache in my bones and the power resting somewhere in my wrists, and if I could tear it out of me I could, break my rib cage open and scoop my insides out and fill myself back up with something sweeter, sew it back up with crooked stitches, because only monsters are made on the lab table, only monsters can remember the needles and how they  _stung,_ how the first time you wanted to hit someone was that nurse that would always call you nice names like  _sweetie_ and  _honey_ and  _dear,_ how even when you begged for it to stop, the pain kept  _coming, coming, coming,_ because the creators were not done with you yet.  ( _I was not the only monster made those nights.  Maybe you should turn your pitchforks and fire towards them instead of me._ )

 

 

I am nothing close to the divine.

 

 

I am no fallen angel.

 

 

I am not gentle, or a monster, or a god.  I don't know what I am.

 

( _Sometimes, in the dead of the night when even the worst whiskey cannot put me to sleep, I think I am death incarnate.  I wear all the black, and it seems that a trail of bodies follows me everywhere I go- first my family, then the boy from the room above mine and Killgrave and the man who turned me into a monster, and then my mother, just a stab of the arm or a cracking in the neck, a bullet through the brain and a spatter of blood across my face and then- nothing.  I tell myself that I have forgotten them but they always come back to visit me in dreams, and they make no secret of who they blame.)_

 

_(If I really was death, I don't think I would feel so guilty.)_

 

_(Death doesn't question.  He only takes.)_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on Instagram @olive.writes.fanfic


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